Rosie's War (17 page)

It was a wonderful party. There were about twenty of us. Christine had primed the doctors beforehand on what the drill was to be if we had a visit from the German guards and Schwester Ruth. I would hop into bed and pretend to be ill and they would appear to be looking after me. Putting one over on the authorities was to be the crowning touch to our festivities.

‘What is the meaning of this, Doctor?’

The old German sergeant had appeared at the door. He was addressing one of the doctors, who was by now apparently taking my temperature and showing signs of concern.

‘We are just on our way into town and I thought we would stop by to check on Mademoiselle Say. She was in the infirmary the other day and we were concerned about her, as you well know.’ He looked at the Schwester.

She nodded her head. Authority intimidated her, as we had found in the past, and doctors seemed to possess the air of authority in abundance. He rose from my bedside and made to leave the room.

‘Eh bien, Mademoiselle. Perhaps a day or two in bed and you should be feeling fine. Bonsoir.’

And with that the doctors swanned out. The sergeant gruffly told us to keep the noise down and they left too. Amazingly, it had worked! Why I should be an object of concern when the room was full of empty bottles and glasses hadn’t seemed to occur to the Germans. The party had been cut short but we were quite happy to clear up. It was the best birthday party I have ever had.

The long, cold winter finally ended a few days after my birthday with a wonderful, warm spell. From my roof perch I watched the snow disappear from the great mountains and the colours of spring push through in the woods below. Margaret, the elegant sculptress, announced one night that with the change in the weather it was time to remind ourselves that we were still part of the female race and dress accordingly.

‘Look at you all,’ she said. ‘You seem to live in old army coats and rags.’

‘What about me?’ I said in mock outrage.

‘Apart from dear Pat, who never seems to leave off her ski ensemble. She’s lorded it over the rest of us quite outrageously and for long enough. It’s time to change.’

‘Hear! Hear!’ someone cried.

‘I have an idea,’ Margaret continued. ‘In the little storeroom by the north wing there are a whole load of linen mattress covers. They’ve been deloused and nobody seems to want them. Let’s use them to make some spring clothes.’

We readily agreed. We got dyes of all colours, needles and threads from our loyal group of French prisoners. We bubbled and boiled for two nights and under Margaret’s supervision we made skirts, slacks and blouses. They were, in truth, quite basic but we didn’t care. We emerged in our hand-dyed and handmade finery feeling like true Parisians. I even left off my ski suit for a while! The change in the weather combined with our new outfits gave us all a new sense of optimism. We had survived the shock of the first few months of imprisonment and the dreadful winter. We felt that we could face whatever came our way.

It was around this time the rumours started that we were all going to be moved to new quarters. By now Frida and I had learned to take such speculation with a pinch of salt. The camp was, after all, a massive rumour mill. The pessimists, who seemed to include most of the Prisoners Committee, claimed that this time we would be moved to Germany, but in our room we were optimistic.

Frida was convinced that the Germans would use us as a propaganda exercise to show the humanity of the Third Reich. Our confidence on this point was somewhat dented one evening when the Schwester arrived after dinner to inform us that our kind guardians were taking us to a lovely new place.

‘I cannot tell you where it is,’ she said. ‘And I shall not be going with you. But I am sure that you will all be very happy there,’ she added with a malicious smile.

We were all panicked by this news. The pessimists seemed to have been right: we were being sent to a German camp – the unspoken nightmare for us all. I spent the next couple of days when working at the office trying to get some more information. As it turned out, my concern was misplaced. I got on quite well with the Kommandant’s secretary and found out from her that we were going to the town of Vittel, which before the war had been a prosperous watering spa in the Vosges region. Apparently there were smart hotels, a large park, a casino and even bathrooms! I related this news breathlessly to Frida as soon as I could. I thought she’d be pleased but I was wrong.

‘So, Pat, that’s the end of the struggle,’ she said bitterly. ‘Welcome to tea parties in the Home Counties.’

‘Oh, come off it, Frida. Just about anything would be better than this. It’s dreadful here.’

‘Maybe it is. But remember that we gain strength only in the face of adversity.’

‘That’s just a political slogan. For God’s sake, Frida, I can’t wait to go.’ I flounced off with tears in my eyes. I was disappointed by her reaction and dismayed at our argument.

A couple of days later our Schwester told us that we would need to have all our clothes and belongings ready for delousing the following morning. We ourselves were to strip in the showers and be scrubbed down with disinfectant by the Schwesters.

‘So, the sedate and bourgeois town of Vittel is frightened that thousands of verminous females will bring an invasion of lice and bugs,’ said Frida grimly as the Schwester left the room.

‘Well that’s understandable,’ said Penelope. ‘Anyway, I’ll be glad to get rid of these dratted lice once and for all.’

This arrangement seemed reasonable enough until we heard later in the day that following our shower we would then have to wrap ourselves in blankets, walk across the cinder courtyard and wait around for our clothes to be deloused. This news did not particularly worry the younger women who hardly gave it a thought. But it created a minor revolution among many of the older inmates. That evening a large Scottish woman who looked like a retired hospital matron complained bitterly to me.

‘It’s dangerous to walk straight out of a hot shower into the cold air.’

I nodded vigorously in agreement.

‘And what if the blanket falls off or the guards decide to pull one off just for the fun of it?’

‘Perhaps we should approach the Committee,’ I suggested hesitantly.

‘Well, let’s see what the others think,’ she replied as she walked away. ‘But I don’t see how that body of wet fish can do anything.’

It turned out the Scottish matron was wrong. There was a great strength of feeling among many of the older women. I’m not sure if it was a result of their fear of being exposed naked in the courtyard or just the anti-fresh air brigade becoming militant but the Committee was persuaded to send a delegation of protest to the Kommandant.

He received us in his office with only his administrative officers present. Fortunately, his Gestapo assistant was away for the day. We argued that the delousing procedure had to be changed: clothes and belongings should be brought to the
douche
and not the other way around. The Kommandant looked concerned. A bevy of protesting females was exactly what he didn’t want at this moment. He was obviously under pressure to start the evacuation of the camp as soon as possible.

‘Another point, Kommandant,’ I added brightly, ‘is that you and your fellow officers will surely want your clothes just by the
douche
when your turn comes.’

To his credit, he smiled at this. He seemed ready to reach a compromise. But there was the matter of honour at stake: who was in charge of the camp? He finally agreed to our request but stationed a group of sentries in the middle of the courtyard with rifles at the ready. The delousing went ahead smoothly.

We left Besançon a couple of days later. It was a warm day in early May. What a sight we must have been: thousands of female tramps laden down with all sorts of clothes, bags and other possessions. One woman clutched two saucepans made from cans, while another next to me had three old forks carefully tied up under her belt. It was a very different group from that tired but orthodox-looking collection of women who had arrived a few months before. Our time in Besançon had taught us that even the most despised piece of rubbish could have value.

We trudged in a slow line down the road leading to the railway station. I glanced to the right of me at the town so near by across the river. I could see people huddled in doorways watching us pass. It was somewhat bewildering to be in contact again with the outside world. I had been in captivity since before Christmas.

It took a number of hours for all of us to board the train and even then there was a long delay before we finally began our journey. We had been told to take food that we had saved from our meals: beetroot jam sandwiches and what tasted like dog biscuits, unless you were fortunate enough to have some Red Cross provisions left. Ersatz coffee was passed to us on the train. It was horrible but we still drank it greedily.

I was in a compartment with Frida, six other women and a German guard. He was a thin, middle-aged man with a streaming red nose who came from Freiburg, just across the border. Frida chatted to him. As always she wanted to know about the war and how ordinary Germans felt about it. He became quite friendly and even shared out his scarce ration of chocolate.

Our journey lasted three days and two nights. On and on the train crawled through the dull, flat country west of the Vosges mountains. It would stop for hours, seemingly for no reason and in the middle of nowhere. I have no idea why that journey took so long. It is only about one hundred kilometers as the crow flies between Besançon and Vittel. Over half a century later I did the same trip by car. In the middle of a torrential winter downpour my journey took slightly over two hours.

‘I think we’re arriving. It’s Vittel!’

I awoke on the morning of our third day on the train to hear Frida’s excited voice. She was craning out of the window. We all pushed to have a look. Even the guard seemed excited, showing his yellowing teeth through a broad smile. As we slowed down I could make out a number of large hotels that looked boarded up and closed. The train pulled into the station and we poured out.

We marched half a mile or so through the town. As in Besançon, the local inhabitants were out in force and watching us suspiciously. We were told later that this time they thought we were German women staying at the spa for our convalescence. I don’t know how this story tallied with our wretched appearance. We passed elegant shops, firmly shut. The whole town had a gloomy and deserted air.

We entered a large, wooded park and reached the entrance of an impressive building, the Grand Hotel. It looked rather like a Parisian apartment block in the
Septième
. There seemed to be a big turnout of German officers to greet us at the entrance. There were also some civilians with cameras. They looked German. Frida grabbed my arm.

‘The bastards are filming us! Keep your heads down everyone,’ she shouted to those around her.

We quickly realized that the whole scene was being filmed for propaganda purposes, presumably to show how well we were being looked after. So we hid our faces like film stars and all rushed into the building, ignoring the dismayed shouts of the cameramen.

The hotel was in a pretentious, turn-of-the-century style with pillars, gilt mirrors, candelabra and lofty staircases. It was the sort of place that rich patients came to before the war to take the waters. No one then would have imagined that its latest clients would be such a bedraggled collection of women, some encased in mattress cloth and carrying with them all their worldly possessions.

An elderly man in black patent pumps was in the foyer, somewhat frantically trying to organize accommodation for us. He was the proprietor of the hotel, as he told us at frequent intervals. His cries of ‘Mesdames, je vous en prie!’ seemed to become more fraught by the minute. ‘Where is the princess?’ I heard him shout.

He smiled ingratiatingly at two rather aristocratic-looking women and led them off to their room. This was presumably one of the better ones on the lower floor which were, I discovered later, as ornate as the hotel: carved marble fireplaces, high ceilings and enormous beds. I disliked the man at once. He reminded me of a pompous restaurant waiter who checks your clothes before deciding on which table to give you. With barely concealed distaste he hurried away a small group of prostitutes down a dark corridor. ‘Come this way, Mesdames, this is where you belong,’ he said to them.

When he came to us he seemed surprised by our youth. Perhaps he was wondering what damage we could do. ‘Room 660,’ he said quickly. ‘The guard will unlock the door for you.’

My little group of five – Shula, Frida, Penelope, Olga and me – had been given a room on the top floor. We seemed to be in the old servants area, which suited us fine. While we waited for the guard to arrive we clambered up the winding stairs to the roof from where we could survey our new home.

We were duly impressed. Below us were more elegant hotels, including the Palace (which was to become the medical centre) and the Continental (where the older women and the nuns were put). In front of us was a columned arcade of luxury shops all closed and shuttered. Next to this was the Casino with a beautiful dome. We were surrounded on all sides by an enormous park which had a number of buildings dotted about. Everything was closed. The lush, green park and the rolling hills in the distance made it all seem much more gentle, if less dramatic, than the majestic bleakness of the Jura Mountains surrounding the Caserne Vauban.